


take your time

by Hymn



Series: Hymn's Fic: Katekyo Hitman Reborn Collection [6]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blood, Embarrassment, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Knife Wound, M/M, Off Screen Violence, Pining, Some angst, Tsuna POV, concussion, inconsistent writing styles lmao, loosely, mangaverse, pls let me know if i missed a tag, probs ooc my apologies, slowish burn i guess, so much pining, the author has no clue what this is, the gore is v mild and brief tbh, threat of stitches, threat of vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24020092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hymn/pseuds/Hymn
Summary: If Reborn had aged slowly, it may never have happened. Instead, it’s as if Tsuna goes to bed one night and when he wakes in the morning, Reborn is older than him.“I’ve always been older than you,” Reborn says.He has, but Tsuna hadn’t known it. And when Tsunadidlearn of the Arcobaleno curse, he hadn’t understood it. Had only known that Reborn needed him, and that had been enough, all Tsuna needed to do anything and everything within his power to save him.But he doesn’t know how to deal with this transformation.
Relationships: Reborn/Sawada Tsunayoshi
Series: Hymn's Fic: Katekyo Hitman Reborn Collection [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1356361
Comments: 84
Kudos: 568





	take your time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zacekova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacekova/gifts).



> this is meant to be both a thank you and an apology for getting zacekova into this fandom, but now i feel like i should probably write you another apology fic due to the quality of this fic lmao. in any case, it's rushed and sloppy but hey, i finished it when i really didn't think i would! and it's all thanks to you, (: you're the best
> 
> title from the song take your time, by martha bean and jon dix

  
  
  
  
  
If Reborn had aged slowly, it may never have happened. Instead, it’s as if Tsuna goes to bed one night and when he wakes in the morning, Reborn is older than him.

“I’ve always been older than you,” Reborn says. 

He has, but Tsuna hadn’t known it. And when Tsuna _did_ learn of the Arcobaleno curse, he hadn’t understood it. Had only known that Reborn needed him, and that had been enough, all Tsuna needed to do anything and everything within his power to save him.

But he doesn’t know how to deal with this transformation.

At the start, the curse lifted so gradually that Tsuna still struggled to comprehend the reality of it, and what it might mean—how it might change them and their relationship. Six months to age a year. One year to add three more. Weird, kind of startling, yet in the end not so different from Reborn as a baby. But by the time Tsuna is sixteen Reborn is Fuuta’s age, and by the time Tsuna is seventeen Reborn looks old enough to be in Tsuna’s class, which is jarring. Tsuna occasionally forgets who he’s dealing with, because according to Reborn he’s never been good at object permanence. 

“You only ever focus on what’s right in front of you,” Reborn says, voice weird and face weird and height just a few centimeters less than Tsuna’s now.

“I’m not that bad!”

“You are,” Reborn smirks, and he’s leaning back against the wall with his hands in both his pockets, wearing a high school uniform he stole and tailored to fit him, but with the jacket and shirt all unbuttoned because he’s been bored and vicious with sudden growing pangs, bones aching and buzzing. It appears Reborn’s answer for how best to endure the indignity of said growing pains is to blatantly dare any nearby delinquents to come and start a fight with him.

It’s not that Reborn is anything less than himself, but he just—he looks so strange like this, a teenager now when only a heartbeat ago Reborn was just some baby. Stupid, probably, that it’s making Tsuna re-evaluate him, like Reborn has suddenly become a brand new person.

It’s so fucking weird that all Tsuna can do is throw up his hands in despair and stomp away, yelling, “Don’t you dare drag me into any gang wars!”

Reborn does, of course. 

It’s awful and absurd and Tsuna thinks too hard about the shape of his body at Tsuna’s back, breathing and moving in tandem and—

Thankfully, Hibari shows up and puts a stop to that nonsense.

“You’re a menace and I hate you,” Tsuna lies, gasping for air from their wild sprint away from a vicious-eyed and terrifyingly interested Hibari, as well as the group of twenty delinquents who’d tried to take them down, only moments prior to the Cloud Guardian’s explosive arrival.

Reborn just smiles. “It was good practice for your control. Not every situation will call for your Vongola gear, after all.”

Tsuna rages: “I don’t want to be in these situations in the first place!”

As usual, Reborn doesn’t listen to him, and it takes Tsuna three months to get used to Reborn as a teenager. Tsuna wishes he were better at reconciling the constantly evolving visage to all the baggage, because then maybe he wouldn’t have spent those three months hissing in pain whenever he touches Reborn like he would Yamamoto or Gokudera, casual and careless.

“Ow ow ow ow _ow_.”

“Presumptuous of you,” Reborn says idly, Tsuna’s arm still twisted painfully in the hitman’s grip, Reborn’s body a cold, terrifying line of aggression at his back. “Should I teach you the value of personal space?”

“Like _you_ know the concept—ow!”

Tsuna wonders what it says about Reborn that he’d had no problem with it during a fight, readily pressing the line of his shoulders back against Tsuna’s when surrounded by angry high schoolers armed with assorted makeshift weapons, but took such offense to Tsuna grabbing his wrist in passing.

And then Tsuna wonders what it says about _him_ that he’s wondering this at all.

But after three months things settle, and everything is fine and Tsuna learns to stop looking at Reborn like a puzzle to be solved, stranger and friend all in one, an impossible question that Tsuna desperately wants the answer to.

Best not to worry about it, surely.

So he doesn’t.

Only then Tsuna goes to bed one night with Reborn still looking like a teenager, and in the morning Reborn’s robe doesn’t fit him, he’s all long, pale legs and a lightly haired chest at the low table, sipping tea as he reads his morning paper. Tsuna yelps, nearly tumbling from bed. “Why are you older than me?!”

“I’ve always been older than you,” Reborn says.

And it’s true, _yes_ , Tsuna knows that by now. But Reborn is _so much_ older that it’s shocking. No longer anything like a baby, or a kid, or some punk teenager eager to start a fight. Instead, he’s transformed all at once into a man, a stranger, but still someone Tsuna would give his life for without a second’s thought.

“What age are you now?” Tsuna asks, heart pounding, wondering if this is a dream.

“Rude,” says Reborn, flipping a page. “No wonder you have such terrible luck with women.”

“You’re not—oh my god, shut up!”

Reborn smirks at him. “ _You_ shut up, No Good Tsuna. Physically, I’m almost the right age. It’s nice to have my height back.”

Tsuna doesn’t know how to deal with that statement at all, but he spends the next week staring at Reborn again, examining the differences, the ways in which he’s the same. Sleek black hair, narrow hips, devastating stare from jet black eyes—all the same, but somehow not. When Reborn meets him at a ramen stand after Tsuna’s part time job, he slurps noodles and breathes in the steam with exactly the same mannerisms as he always has, but—

“You’re staring,” Reborn murmurs.

—the shape of his jaw is harder, sharper. All of his features are, in fact. And now that Reborn has grown into his limbs overnight, he’s all grace and swagger, his effortless control at containing his own power turned into something magnetic, utterly hypnotizing to watch.

And Tsuna’s been watching.

Too much, probably, because the next thing he does is protest, “I don’t remember you being this good looking.” As soon as he realizes what he’s said, Tsuna’s heart stops.

Reborn stills, chopsticks loaded with noodles.

Turns on his stool to face him.

Blinks.

Tsuna makes a noise like he’s dying and then jerks to his feet so abruptly he knocks his own stool over. Amazingly, Tsuna doesn’t trip. He does, however, run away and to his house where he can lock himself in the bathroom and ask his reflection: “What the fuck was that about?!”

He doesn’t know, and more than that he doesn’t get why it has him in such a panic. He’s been making a fool of himself since before the curse was lifted, and this particular brand of foolery isn’t new, considering what happened during the teenage months.

But—

It’s different, somehow.

Tsuna understands now that the unknown person he fought during the battle for the rainbow pacifiers was really Reborn. Only he doesn’t remember thinking about what Reborn _looked_ like. He was just a man, an opponent, a lesson to be learned. 

Whatever this is, it’s not the same thing at all.

\---

Thankfully, Reborn doesn’t bring it up when they see each other next, and Tsuna has to stop fretting because he’s too busy being distracted by the hitman’s newest manipulations, ones to get Tsuna fired from his part time job so he can start spending more time dealing with mafia business. Tsuna might have fought him harder on that front, but it was also when Reborn decided to move out, getting his own place and refusing to tell Tsuna his address.

“You can’t want to know _too_ badly,” Reborn tells him, grinning in that subtle, wicked way that shows a hint of teeth and never fails to make Tsuna shiver. A predator’s smile if there ever was one, he thinks.

“What do you mean?”

Reborn shrugs with one shoulder, tugs the brim of his hat down a little lower so only the wolf’s smile shows. He’s in a suit, as he almost always is now that his body is nearly his own again. “You’re Vongola Tenth. If you wanted my address badly enough, you’d find a way.”

“Damn it,” Tsuna groans, slumping in his chair. “Is this seriously another lesson?!”

They’re at a cafe that Reborn frequents, and Tsuna’s finally stopped twitching every time someone passes by, afraid that somebody he knows will see and wonder what Tsuna could possibly be doing at a little outdoor table across from someone like Reborn: handsome, sophisticated, and obviously dangerous. At this point, Tsuna’s reputation as a normal person is beyond repair, so what’s one more strike against him? He’s tired of fretting, and he misses Reborn these days in a way he never expected.

So when Reborn tells him “Everything in life is a lesson, Tsuna,” it barely registers.

He’s too busy examining Reborn. The curl of hair in front of his ears; the tight cuff of his shirt collar around his neck; his lethal, strong hand somehow looking elegant and dextrous while holding a tiny, white ceramic cup full of dark coffee.

“Do you like that?” Tsuna asks.

Reborn sips his drink. “What, life being full of lessons? Of course I do. Only an idiot wouldn’t find the challenge refreshing.”

“No. I mean—the coffee. Is that why you come here?”

Slowly, Reborn sets the cup into its saucer, one long finger crooked around the delicate handle like it’s a trigger he’s flirting with pulling. Or would it be squeezing? Reborn’s never taught him much about guns, for all his obsession with Tsuna being an ideal mafia boss, so he doesn’t know.

“Yes,” he says. “This is the best espresso in Namimori.”

“Can I try it?”

Reborn sets an elbow on the table, chin resting on the heel of his palm. The other still flirts with the cup’s handle, the quiet scrape of ceramic against ceramic almost musical amidst the bustling, chaotic noise of traffic and pedestrians. He seems entertained at Tsuna’s sudden interest. “You really want to try this?”

Tsuna nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” says Tsuna. “I’ve had espresso before, but not in a cup like that. Does it taste better?”

“Hm. The cup has a name.”

That’s weird, Tsuna thinks, that a cup has a name. But people love naming things, labeling them, singling them out for nuance. Isn’t that what Tsuna is doing? Trying to identify Reborn and find the right string of words to define him? Maybe, maybe not. 

Reborn slides the saucer over, the tiny cup within rattling against the table’s uneven top. “Go ahead.”

The cup is so small Tsuna is almost afraid to pick it up, but he does. The ceramic is hot, and Tsuna tries not to pay too much attention to the way his fingers crook through that handle, so different from Reborn’s. He takes a sip, grateful when it doesn’t burn his mouth. It’s bitter and strong and Tsuna doesn’t think it’s good or particularly bad, but somehow there’s something powerful about sitting there at this little cafe table, Reborn’s face angled just enough so that Tsuna can see Reborn’s eyes on him, watching as he takes another sip. Something intimate, maybe, in sharing something so mundane. Something normal in a relationship that has always been as far from normal as possible.

“Huh,” says Tsuna.

“Learn anything?” Reborn asks, voice light in a way that strikes Tsuna as careful. Tsuna slides the cup and saucer back, and Reborn doesn’t move, still watching him.

“Do you make that at home?” Tsuna asks, thinking about the stovetop espresso Reborn used to make at the Sawada residence. He tries to imagine _this_ Reborn doing it, maybe barefoot in the kitchen, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms, and can almost see it, see _him_ —

Reborn sits back, the espresso left cooling on the table. “If you ever figure out where I live,” he says, “maybe you’ll find out.”

It doesn’t sound like a promise.

It sounds more like a threat, to be honest, but Tsuna’s used to those.

\---

Before he knows it Tsuna’s eighteenth birthday comes and goes. He graduates. His days and nights are pock marked with battles, hurried phone conversations with the Ninth and CEDEF, pouring over treaties between families and making appearances in Italy, France, the UK, China—Tsuna’s mother tells everyone Tsuna’s on a world tour, but really Reborn is torturing him with mafia business, getting Tsuna so soundly entangled and known that he has no hope of running away.

“I won’t, you know,” he tells Reborn on the train back from the airport, the familiar sounds and smells and sights of Japan a comfort all around them. 

Reborn has his arms crossed, leaned against the door and staring out at the scenery blurring past. He’s finally finished growing back into himself, it seems, and Tsuna still can’t help but stare. Tsuna had started noticing it when Reborn looked like a teenager, and knows it as an irrefutable fact now after the last big growth spurt: Reborn is handsome. Devastatingly so, and also entirely certain of himself. Tsuna’s gut burns with longing whenever he looks too long at his old home tutor, imagining what it might be like to feel so confident. Reborn makes it seem effortless, every time.

Except the layovers might’ve gotten to him, because when all he does is hum a query, Tsuna looks closer. He’s gotten good at paying attention, he thinks. At noticing the little things. So he sees the sleepy droop of Reborn’s eyelids, the slight crookedness to the knot in his plain black tie, when a year ago he might not have. 

He sees it, and he feels warm all over that Reborn would let his softened edges show in Tsuna’s presence.

Tsuna reaches out with slow movements, telegraphing them plainly. Reborn doesn’t react, except to turn his gaze from the window to Tsuna, dark and patient. Stays still and loose while Tsuna carefully adjusts Reborn’s tie so it sits right, smoothing it out across his chest before easing back, out of Reborn’s personal space, which not so long ago Tsuna wasn’t allowed in.

It makes Tsuna smile. “I won’t run away. You don’t have to worry, okay? You don’t have to trap me into this or anything. I’m Vongola Tenth. The person you made me into.”

“Ah.”

The sound drops between them, Reborn’s bottom lip somehow vulnerable and strange, his mouth so lightly parted, eyes gone slightly wide. It’s not an expression Tsuna thinks he’s ever seen, at least not on Reborn. Tsuna stares, surprised by Reborn’s surprise. 

“What?” he asks.

The surprise evaporates as if it never was. Reborn’s gaze shutters, locked away behind a lowered veil of dark lashes, stark against his pale skin. His mouth twists in a strange smile. “I didn’t realize I’d made you anything at all, I suppose.”

Tsuna gapes, completely dumbfounded. Also, possibly a little annoyed. Years of bullying flash through his mind all at once, and it’s a struggle to keep his voice low enough not to attract attention. “You...what? What the _hell_ , Reborn! The last four years of my life have been nothing but you _making me do things_. Forcing me to become the Tenth!”

“I didn’t _make_ you do anything,” Reborn protests, looking once more out the window, all those soft edges gone sharp once more. He grins, wicked and teasing. Tsuna can see it reflected off the glass. 

“Bullshit!”

Reborn switches gears, easy as anything. “So, you’re not a child any longer, hm? No longer desperate to run away.”

“I...that’s right,” Tsuna agrees, because even though it feels as though Reborn has twisted this somehow, that’s the whole point Tsuna was trying to make: that he’s here, he’s in this, Reborn doesn’t have to worry so much anymore.

“But still with a few things to learn, apparently. The choice was always yours, Tsuna. I only helped you grow into the man you are today. I didn’t _make_ you, you idiot.”

“Why are you being weird about this?” Tsuna sighs.

“I’m not,” Reborn says. “But I am going to sleep now. Wake me when we get to the station, hm?”

“You are _totally_ being weird about this!”

Reborn doesn’t answer, tucking his chin down close to his chest so that Tsuna can’t easily see his face anymore, not even in the reflection. When Tsuna inches closer to get a better look at him, he sees Reborn with his eyes closed, face serene, pretending to sleep. Or actually asleep, Tsuna’s never been able to tell. 

“Seriously, what the hell,” Tsuna mutters, annoyed and uncomfortable and confused. “I just—just wanted you to know that. That you succeeded, I guess. You won. You don’t have to worry any more! I thought you’d be happy to hear that.”

No answer.

Not that Tsuna expected one. Fake sleep or not, Reborn has always fully committed to whatever choice he makes. The rest of their journey is filled with Reborn’s faint snores, Tsuna twisting the Vongola ring on his finger, round and round and round. It isn’t until Reborn walks away from the station in Namimori, he and Tsuna headed in opposite directions, that Tsuna realizes that he’s in love with Reborn.

It’s the stupidest thing, really. 

He’s just standing there with his battered suitcase in hand, scowling at Reborn’s silhouette against the dusk sky. Irritated that Reborn reacted in a way Tsuna didn’t understand. Exasperated that the hitman can never allow things to be _simple_. Frustrated that Tsuna can’t just crack Reborn open and crawl inside and understand him, every part of him, and also—

Fond, missing him already, all soft and twisted up inside because Tsuna can’t help but love him.

Oh, he thinks.

And then he carefully doesn’t think about anything at all. Turns, dragging his suitcase along behind him as he heads home. One step in front of the other and _oh_ , oh fuck, of _course_ he’s in love with Reborn. That just figures, doesn’t it? Tsuna never can be normal.

No wonder he’s been looking so closely.

Or, wait—is it because he _has_ been looking so closely? Would he have ever noticed these feelings if Reborn hadn’t grown up? If it hadn’t happened so fast, Tsuna fascinated by the change, actively seeking out all the little differences, the nuance? Would he have even realized that Reborn is attractive? Spectacular? The best thing that’s ever happened to him?

Maybe, maybe not, but Tsuna feels so sick with the realization he can’t even question it—he knows it’s true, however it happened.

He’s in love with Reborn.

\---

When Tsuna was fourteen, he’d been painfully obvious about his crush on Kyoko. Now, at eighteen and change, he’s terrified that he’ll be just as obvious around Reborn. But he shouldn’t have bothered stressing about it, since Reborn bulldozes past any awkwardness every time, well used to ignoring Tsuna’s feelings.

Which is great, because Tsuna finds himself staring.

A lot.

Like when Reborn is sprawled across the sofa in Tsuna’s newly acquired office, angled to take in the early afternoon light. Even at rest, the hitman doesn’t look anything less than lethal. He’s lithe and sharp and _distracting_ , a danger in more ways than one. 

Seated at his desk across the room, Tsuna’s fingers slowly curl into fists, chest far too tight at the sight of Reborn in repose, fedora tipped forward so far Tsuna can only see his chin beneath the brim. The matte black of his tie is a sharp line bisecting his torso, and it’s absolutely embarrassing to be appreciating the creases in a pair of slacks as much as Tsuna currently is.

But Reborn’s jacket is off.

His sleeves are rolled up, long legs dangling over the end of the couch.

His chest rises and falls so easily, so steadily, and it’s strangely soothing to watch him simply breathe. _Soothing_ , which Tsuna figures is how he knows he’s got it bad. Nothing about Reborn should be soothing, and yet…

“Do you have blankets at home?” Tsuna asks, because it’s been ten minutes and he’s still staring and there’s simply no way he’s getting back to work like this.

Silence.

And then, from beneath the fedora: “...what?”

“Throw blankets,” Tsuna says. “You know, the kind you put on the back of your couch because they look nice and are fun to curl up under. For naps.”

“Ah. Yes, I do.”

Tsuna leans his elbows on his desk, chin in both hands, still staring. Leon shifts on the far side of Reborn’s fedora; he can just make out the flick of his tail.

“Does Leon have a—what do you call them? An aquarium? With all the rocks and the light and stuff.”

Reborn sighs. “Leon has an entire room to himself, when he wants it. But if what you’re actually asking about is a sun lamp, then yes, he has three.”

“Do you nap under them with him?”

Tsuna catches the sharp rise of Reborn’s chest when he snorts, tie pin glinting in the light. “No, I’m not small enough anymore.”

“Do you—”

“Tsuna,” Reborn says.

Tsuna’s mouth snaps shut, recognizing that warning tone. A second later he opens it again, muttering “I was just curious,” as he shuffles through some paperwork. He doesn’t add _about you_ , but figures it’s probably obvious.

Reborn laughs. “Since when have _you_ ever been curious?”

God, but that laugh is the softest, most gentle Tsuna thinks he’s ever heard Reborn sound. He wants to hear it again, but doesn’t have the first clue how to make it happen on purpose. So Tsuna shrugs, even though Reborn probably can’t see him. “People change.”

“Hm.”

Tsuna can’t help himself. He stays curious, keeps asking questions: Reborn’s favorite dessert, his least favorite color, the music he likes to listen to. Keeps staring. Keeps being obvious and grateful that Reborn barely pauses, because Tsuna doesn’t know what he’d do if they had to face the issue head on.

Tsuna’s in love with Reborn, yes, but—

What’s he supposed to do about it?

Nothing.

There’s no way Reborn would ever return the sentiment, after all.

\---

And then Tsuna’s nineteenth birthday happens, and Tsuna shows up at Reborn’s apartment.

Drunk.

He lets himself in through the front door because it’s unlocked. “Why’s it not locked?” he slurs once he’s on the other side, staring at the door in bemusement. 

The safety on Reborn’s gun clicks into place.

Tsuna turns to see him seated on the center of a couch directly facing the front door. Black leather; red and yellow throw blankets folded over the back, texture soft and glinting in the dim lamplight. Reborn himself is barefoot, dressed in black pajamas. Silk, Tsuna assumes, since this _is_ Reborn. He’s not wearing a hat.

It’s probably the most underdressed Tsuna has seen him since...since he moved out.

Away.

Reborn sighs, elbows on his knees, gun cradled in both hands. “It’s unlocked because you texted me you were on the way, idiot.”

“Oh.” 

Tsuna turns again, locking up. Stands there a moment with his palm flat against the plain, simple door. His knuckles are scarred, he notices. It’s probably a weird thing to notice. Tsuna toes off his shoes and says, “Hey. Was yesterday really your birthday?”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking, except that Reborn’s birthday is supposed to be the day before Tsuna’s. Only Reborn hadn’t said anything about plans this year. Had declined Tsuna’s own invite tonight.

It bothers him, is all.

When there’s no reply, Tsuna pushes away from the door and wanders through the apartment. It’s strange. Weird. Because it’s so normal, and also because Tsuna can see traces of Reborn everywhere—a worn guide to bird watching on a little table by the window, next to a pair of binoculars. A rifle taken apart on a towel in the kitchen. A wire tree of espresso cups next to the sink.

Demitasse.

That’s what they’re called. Tsuna looked it up somewhere along the way.

There’s a bookshelf, an entertainment center with an expensive looking television. A rug. Lamps. Some kind of houseplant waxy and green in the corner. Dishes in the sink. Photographs on the fridge. Tsuna is afraid to look and see who they’re of, which people matter enough to be on display, so he doesn’t look. Circles through the apartment again and again.

“Did you just come over to wear a groove into my floor, Tsuna?” Reborn asks. Everything about him is casual, now, slumped back against his couch with one ankle propped on his knee, the gun still in one hand. As if Tsuna being here is perfectly normal. Expected, even.

“You didn’t come out with us,” Tsuna says.

Reborn smiles faintly, more shadow and shifting light than anything. But without his fedora, Tsuna spots it. “You’re underage, still.”

Tsuna laughs. It’s funny—as if Reborn cares for rules.

“When did you figure out where I lived?”

“Three months ago.”

“Ah.” His voice is low, quiet. It’s late, and Tsuna wonders if Reborn was sleeping before this. Tsuna keeps wandering, doesn’t know what else to do with himself. He moves through Reborn’s space, feeling like a stranger, an unwelcome guest, and wishing he could stay here forever.

“We should have a drink,” Tsuna says. “Just you and me. It’s my birthday. Er, well. It was, at least. What time is it now?”

“Late,” Reborn says, still with that shifting smile, that lazy sprawl. 

“And—and I mean, I don’t know if it’s true. You lie sometimes, you know? So maybe the thirteenth isn’t your birthday. Is it?”

“I celebrated,” Reborn tells him. “But I’m old now, remember? I don’t need a spectacle.”

“You love a spectacle.”

Reborn’s smile twitches, grows into a grin. “Beer’s in the fridge, if you want to share a drink. Or would you rather sake? Should we go the whole way, Tsuna? Are you asking me to share a drink with the boss?”

“Shut up,” Tsuna mutters, going for the fridge.

“We could do it yakuza style. I think I have a spare yukata that will fit you. It’s been a while since I dressed up, could be fun.”

Tsuna sees Dino’s grinning face amidst a sea of his subordinates. A recent photo of Bianchi kissing Reborn’s cheek. Coronello in a headlock while Lal sneers at the camera. There are others, but Tsuna opens the fridge door, finds the beer. Shuts it without looking closer.

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” Tsuna tells him. “You always make it weird. Big. Something more than it is. Just a drink, Reborn. With me.”

“Just that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tsuna says, and finally comes to a halt.

He’s standing in front of Reborn, holding out the beer. It’s sweating in his grip, but Tsuna’s proud his fingers don’t tremble, don’t slip. He stares down at Reborn, those dark and clever eyes, the sharp, handsome face set in a cool, amused expression. 

He’s beautiful, really. Not just attractive, devastating or not. Reborn is _beautiful_.

Tsuna’s heart squeezes. He does his best to ignore it.

“All right.” Reborn shifts, stretches out to set his gun down on the little table with the binoculars. Reaches out next for the beer Tsuna is offering. The sound of the tab being pulled is loud. “One drink with my student, now nineteen. For old time’s sake.”

“What’s that?” Tsuna asks, dropping victoriously onto the couch next to him and opening his own can of beer. He takes a sip; it tastes like water at this point, Tsuna still plenty drunk from earlier. “This isn’t old time’s sake. This is new.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Tsuna says, drinking and drinking and staring at the closed door, the blank television screen. Reborn is cold and still and impossible next to him, holding his beer but not taking more than a perfunctory sip. He may as well be a statue made of marble, Tsuna thinks, for all the give in him.

“Hm. You were easier to manage when everything upset you.”

“I yelled a lot,” Tsuna agrees.

“But you listened, too,” Reborn muses, settling deeper into the couch. The shifting cushions suck at Tsuna, pulling him into orbit. His jean clad thigh brushes against Reborn’s. Those pajamas are _definitely_ silk. Tsuna resists the urge to touch. “For all your running, you never could abandon a fight.”

Tsuna grimaces. “That’s not—that’s not quite right.”

“ _Still_ fighting,” Reborn clicks his tongue, obviously amused. “Children these days, always arguing like they know better. Where’s the respect for your elders, hm?”

“I’m not…”

“What?”

Tsuna turns at the hips, twisting to look at Reborn. He’s still smiling, of course. “I’m not a child anymore.”

The smile changes, getting tight at the corners. “Idiot. Only children say that.”

“Reborn.”

One eyebrow quirks, questioning. “Yes?”

Tsuna shakes his head, feeling dizzy. “Nothing,” he says, laughing a little. “Just. I like saying your name. I like you. Even though you made my life hell. I—I’m glad. That you’re here. With me.”

Reborn seems to study him, his eyes tracking back and forth over Tsuna’s face. Tsuna studies him in turn, swaying closer, marveling that he’s here, that’s allowed this close. Tsuna wants to always be this close. He thinks about telling Reborn that, but that’s when Tsuna notices the hitman’s smile fading entirely, eyes glinting like ice. “What is it?” Tsuna asks, voice near a whisper.

A hand on Tsuna’s chest pushes him back. Reborn stands, walking into the kitchen. “The condensation is going to ruin my couch,” he claims, setting his beer on the counter near his rifle.

Tsuna follows him, because he’s drunk and an idiot and helpless to do anything else.

“Why are you really here?”

“I told you,” Tsuna protests. “Birthdays—”

“No. You knew my address months ago. That means you stayed away for a reason. The same reason, I think, that made you come here tonight. What is it?”

Even in pajamas and with his hair mused, Reborn exudes danger. Tsuna stares, mouth gaping, torn between drunken panic at this line of questioning and the unfair reality of how _good_ Reborn looks. Tsuna can feel himself flush. Knows he looks like an idiot, that Reborn can probably sense his heart pounding or _hear_ it, somehow. But—

“Nothing,” Tsuna says. 

—it can’t become anything.

Reborn sighs, some of the threat in his posture easing. “No Good Tsuna, I thought you were done running.”

“Hey!” Tsuna’s red in the face, tight in the chest, sick in the stomach. The beer can crumples a little in his grip. “That’s not—that’s not fair!”

“When is anything ever fair, Tsuna?”

“ _Shut up_. Why is everything always a lesson with you? Can’t you just—-can’t you just _be_ here?”

What he means to say is: can’t you just be you, and I’ll just be me, and that way we can be together. Not as student and teacher, but as Tsuna and Reborn. Just two people. Just you and me.

Reborn looks annoyed. “You’re too drunk for this conversation, idiot.”

“I’m not!”

“Yeah, you are. Do you even know what you tried to do on the couch, Tsuna?”

The beer can crumples more. Tsuna can’t tell if his slick palm is from condensation or sweat. “I. What?”

“Are you lonely?” Reborn asks. “Tired of being a virgin? Can’t get a girlfriend? Do you feel like you owe the man who made you who you are, Tsuna?”

Aluminum slices into Tsuna’s palm.

The world is roaring in his ears, like a free fall. He might be sick. Tsuna licks his lips, stunned, stalling for time. He tries to find the right words to ask Reborn what he’s saying, what that’s supposed to _mean_ , but he doesn’t know how.

Only knows that something is going wrong, and that he can’t fix it.

“W-What?”

“You were about to kiss me,” Reborn tells him, voice calm. “That was a mistake, Tsuna.”

Tsuna stares.

Reborn shakes his head. Steps close enough to pry the leaking, busted beer can out of Tsuna’s shaking grip. He turns away, deposits it into the sink. Says over his shoulder without looking, “Go home, Tsuna.”

Tsuna goes.

\---

Tsuna never meant to do anything about it.

He was smart, wanting to leave it unspoken, never acted upon. Because he’d been right—nothing could come of it. Reborn didn’t want him. Why would he? Tsuna was still just some kid to him, a student who was probably only ever going to be a loud fourteen year old boy and troublesome in Reborn’s eyes. 

It was hopeless.

So in the morning, Tsuna pretends like he was so drunk that he can’t remember. Texts Reborn **whoa did i make it to your place? i don’t even remember texting you!** He laughs, scratching the back of his head sheepishly when he meets Reborn at the little coffee shop two days later, bandage around his palm, saying, “Do you know how I hurt my hand? None of the other guys remember.”

“Hm,” says Reborn, eyes watchful over his espresso.

Tsuna deliberately doesn’t hold his breath, but deliberately holds Reborn’s eyes, his smile faintly puzzled.

“No,” Reborn finally says. “You must have done something foolish, though.”

Tsuna keeps smiling. “You’re probably right.”

So, he thinks to himself, guess I can lie after all. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. A mafia boss who can’t tell a lie probably wouldn’t it make it very far in life. Tsuna supposes this can count as a lesson. Just one more thing Reborn’s teaching him.

Doesn’t matter that it breaks his heart.

\---

Eventually, he learns to stop asking questions.

He stops staring.

And Reborn says absolutely nothing about it at all.

\---

Tsuna’s in America for a meeting. Mostly he’s been excited about the sightseeing. A little nauseated about being on foreign soil alone for the first time on mafia business, but enjoying dollar pizza and tiny figurines of the Statue of Liberty and the startling, magnificent anonymity that being just one more tourist in the big city gives him.

He buys too much Starbucks and takes a lot of pictures. Gokudera and Yamamoto comment on each and every one of them.

That helps, he thinks, in keeping the loneliness at bay.

He didn’t expect to be lonely. Day in and day out since graduating high school Tsuna’s been dealing with an alien world, one which rarely affords him any downtime or privacy. Meetings, phone calls, e-mails; Tsuna’s life revolves around people, but it’s here, surrounded by so many strangers, that he’s reminded once again of how important his friends are.

_Friends_ is too weak a word, of course. 

They’re Tsuna’s family, his most important people. Those who he’s bled for and leaned on and laughed with. By the second day of his vacation, he misses them like a wound in his chest, an ache that won’t mend.

He begins to regret flying in so early. With his twentieth birthday coming up in a few months, Tsuna had used it as leverage against all of Gokudera and Fuuta and Basil’s protests that he shouldn’t travel without an escort. _Five days_ , he’d begged. _Just give me five days to be a normal teenager! I don’t have much time left to pretend, okay, and I just—I need this. Please._

To Tsuna’s surprise, it had been Reborn who decided them in his favor.

He doesn’t know what to think of that. More and more often of late Reborn’s been stepping back, keeping out of Vongola business. He watches Tsuna in a way he never used to. It’s worrisome. Tsuna doesn’t know what to do to stop his old tutor from slipping away from him; he doesn’t even know if that’s what’s happening, but he’s afraid nonetheless.

If Reborn leaves, Tsuna will have no one to blame but himself.

\---

Tsuna has never listened to jazz.

More than that, he’s never really thought about it. Never considered listening to the greats or learning about the musical theory behind it. Never even formulated an opinion about whether he’d enjoy it or dislike it if given the chance, to be honest. Why would he? Mostly, Tsuna just listens to whatever’s popular back home or whatever songs his guardians recommend him. The resulting combination is eclectic to say the least, but despite that, jazz has never before factored into his life.

So it comes as a surprise when, on his third day in New York City, he receives an email alert confirming his reservation for a jazz club on the lower East side for tomorrow night.

Not even Gianni back at the Vongola base can explain how Tsuna’s made a reservation at a club he’s never even heard of before. Gokudera calls to take care of it, but an hour later there’s a confirmation for yet another reservation, along with a very gracious apology for the club’s accidental cancellation. Drinks, apparently, are on the house.

Sighing, Tsuna leans his forehead against the cold glass of his hotel window. The suite he’s in gives a towering advantage over surrounding buildings, but still is dwarfed by so many others. The world outside has gone dark and the only lights are alien ones, bright but cold. 

Tsuna is lonely and far from home, and very quickly becoming maudlin about it. 

Also, he should never have tried to kiss Reborn.

It’s been nearly a year, and it’s still something he does his best not to think about, but somehow always has on his mind. If he’d only been smarter, then Tsuna wouldn’t need to second guess every motive. If he’d only kept his desire a secret, then Reborn wouldn’t have become so difficult to talk to. 

Not that Reborn has made it difficult; it’s only that Tsuna always feels like he’s cutting out his own heart every time he pretends like nothing happened. Tsuna can never decide if Reborn is being kind or cruel, pretending in turn.

It would have been better if Tsuna had never fallen in love with him in the first place, he thinks. Better if he could have at least moved _on_. It doesn’t seem fair that Tsuna’s heart still longs for him. There’s no hope, but apparently that doesn’t matter. A year of heartbreak, of stilted conversations, of Tsuna lying and lying and lying, and at the core of it a truth that remained unchanged. 

It isn’t fair at all, but Reborn has already taught him that lesson, so at least Tsuna isn’t surprised by it.

He considers texting him to ask about the jazz club. Maybe the mystery would catch Reborn’s interest. But then again, maybe he’d just be irritated at Tsuna bothering him, or think it was all some dumb, elaborate ploy to ask him on a _date_ of all things, which would be…

Horrible, probably, though that honestly seems too kind a word.

For a while Tsuna just stands there, dressed in an oversized hoodie and with his feet aching from walking around downtown all day. He feels heavy, his brain curiously quiet. He thinks about calling home again to tell them about the continued strangeness with the jazz club, but eventually, with the city glittering out his window like the stars he can’t see in the sky, Tsuna finally gives in and texts Reborn after all: **why’d you let me come here alone?**

The response is immediate, but also entirely unhelpful: **You’re an idiot.**

Tsuna slides his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie, feeling far too tired.

\---

Seated in a random diner in Brooklyn on the fourth day of his trip, Tsuna’s starting to wonder if what he really needed wasn’t distance and solitude, but a reminder that he doesn’t want to be normal anymore, not if it means losing the life he’s made with his family. He supposes he can’t really regret these five days after all, not if it’s given him some perspective he hadn’t yet realized he needed.

Maybe that’s the lesson, the only reason Reborn let him out of Vongola’s reach, unsupervised and unprotected. Because he knew Tsuna needed the reminder. Tsuna grimaces at nothing, thinking: I should probably stop agonizing over what Reborn thinks. It’s getting embarrassing.

As a distraction, Tsuna takes a photo of the salt and pepper shakers on the booth’s table, waiting for his order of diner fries and pancakes. The food here is too heavy and greasy, he’s tired of hearing almost every language but his own as he walks aimlessly down the streets, and he’s only in Brooklyn because he got turned around on the subway.

He posts the picture without a caption. It’s a dumb photo and not worth posting _at all_ , but he feels restless and frustrated and bored and—

The text alert comes in like a gunshot.

Literally, because that’s what Tsuna programmed Reborn’s ringtone to sound like.

A waitress passing by his booth with a tray of drinks startles. “Holy _shit_ ,” she hisses, and before she can upend her entire tray Tsuna’s up and steadying it for her. 

“Sorry,” he says, feeling sheepish as always. “I should uhm, probably silence that or something.”

She looks at him, wide-eyed and faintly accusing. Tsuna wishes he could say it was an uncommon reaction, but it isn’t. This happens _every_ time Reborn messages him. Tsuna might regret his choice of ringtones if it didn’t suit Reborn so perfectly; as always, the irritation and embarrassment and sudden shock of adrenaline it incites leaves Tsuna feeling nostalgic.

“It’s fine,” she says. “But damn. What a ringtone. What, is that your boss or dad or something?”

“Or something,” Tsuna agrees. 

She leaves, and Tsuna slumps back into his booth feeling like every kind of fool. He doesn’t open his phone immediately, though he _does_ silence it. But Tsuna’s learned better how not to run away, so eventually he checks to see what Reborn has texted.

**Don’t be late tonight.**

Tsuna stares long enough for his phone to go dim and then dark. 

All he can think is: What? Tsuna doesn’t have any plans this evening, except maybe to check out Times Square at night, since apparently that’s a touristy thing to do. There’s nothing in his itinerary, that was the whole _point_ of these extra five days. The only thing Tsuna can think of is the mysterious reservation at the jazz club, but that can’t be—

Oh, god.

Heart in his throat, Tsuna wakes his phone back up and sends: **What are you talking about???**

Of course, his food arrives so Tsuna can’t actually stare anxiously at his phone, waiting for Reborn’s reply. But he _wants_ to. By the time he’s assured his waiter that he has everything, he’s good, no _really_ he’s fine, there are a series of texts waiting for him.

**Considering you tried to cancel the reservations, I daresay you know exactly what I’m talking about.**

**Wear your charcoal suit with the skinny red tie.**

**I mean it, don’t be late.**

Tsuna...doesn’t actually know how to respond.

So he doesn’t. He puts his phone down and he eats his food mechanically. He can’t taste anything; he’s not sure if he wants to puke or cry or yell, but he knows—

Scratch that, Tsuna knows _nothing_.

When he’s finished his pancakes he texts back: **You’re in NYC?**

**As if I’d allow Vongola Decimo to be without backup. Of course I am.** And then, barely a second later: **Idiot.**

Tsuna closes his eyes, thinking back to last night. To asking why Reborn had let him come here alone; but of course he hadn’t. Because no matter how caustic or cruel or dispassionate Reborn may seem at times, he _cares_. Tsuna knows it, has known it for years. A mistake as inconsequential as an unwanted kiss isn’t enough to change that. 

He types back: **In that case, you should’ve gotten lunch with me.**

**In that dump? Hell no. I found a place that does a decent stromboli.**

Tsuna smiles. 

Reborn is nearby somewhere, watching over Tsuna as he always has. It doesn’t make the ache he carries in his chest any better, but Tsuna’s learning to live with it. Can accept it if all his worries and fears about Reborn leaving him are meaningless.

He texts back: **Okay. See you tonight, I guess.**

\---

Somehow, Tsuna manages to make it back uptown to his hotel. Now that he knows to sense for him, Tsuna can just barely make out Reborn on the edge of his awareness. A lingering cold that makes him think of bullets before they’re loaded into the chamber; a threat, but only a potential one.

As always, it makes something tight at the base of Tsuna’s spine ease, knowing that Reborn is close. The loneliness is lifted; nerves take its place.

He doesn’t know what to expect where his old home tutor is concerned. Even less so now, a year after Tsuna got drunk enough to reveal his feelings to Reborn. He regrets it, he thinks, except that Tsuna’s spent his life working towards _not_ regretting things. Reborn taught him that. So it gets a little complicated in his head at times: maybe he regrets it, but maybe he’d have regretted it more if he’d never tried at all, never known with any certainty what might happen if he did.

Still, Reborn’s voice is in Tsuna’s head as he gets ready. Cool, calm, collected: _That was a mistake._

It would be a worse mistake to think of tonight as anything more than what it is. The problem there, however, is that Tsuna doesn’t know what tonight is at all. All he’s certain of is that it’s not a date; that he can’t act stupid and obvious and has to be normal, be totally chill and reasonable and—

He’s completely fucked, isn’t he?

Tsuna sighs, but gets out the charcoal gray suit from his garment bag and the skinny red tie from his suitcase. Whatever Reborn has planned, it’s probably best to go along with his orders, peculiar as they may be. An hour before he’s meant to be at the club Tsuna’s dressed, wearing the cufflinks Chrome bought him for his last birthday and the expensive Italian leather shoes Gokudera got him two Christmases ago. 

He feels ridiculous walking out onto the city streets like this, but the guy at the hotel’s cab stand whistles when Tsuna steps up. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says. Tsuna wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t; he’s only gotten a cab twice since arriving, and worn jeans and a hoodie every time. “You’re looking nice. Uptown or downtown?”

“Er, thanks,” Tsuna says, trying not to flush. “Uh. Which way is East Village?”

The trip downtown takes a while, because traffic in New York is appalling. But the cab spits him out in front of a nondescript brick building with a green halogen sign lit up and flickering: Hank’s. Tsuna feels out of his realm immediately; there are brick oven pizza places and a Subway just down the block, a park nearby with a basketball game going on and packs of people absolutely everywhere, all looking like they belong, like they know where they’re going, what they’re doing.

And here Tsuna is, dressed to the nines and awkwardly standing on the curb.

It gets even more surreal when he remembers that Reborn _invited him_ here. To a jazz club. Where small, scattered groups of stylish, sleek looking men and women smoke and murmur to each other, glittering and strange beneath the setting sun and the heavy orange glow of the street lights.

Tsuna feels panic clutch at him, and as the cab jerks into motion behind him, startling and too close, Tsuna lurches forward, stumbling and off balance and—

Reborn catches him.

“Pay attention,” he chides, as if this is any normal situation and Reborn is still schooling him on situational awareness.

As if Tsuna isn’t so aware of Reborn’s arm curled around the small of his back, holding him close, that it _hurts_ him, burning like a brand. “The _fuck_ ,” gasps Tsuna, and he can feel his face go bright red in one agonizing instant, because Reborn isn’t moving away. He’s far too close and smelling like some subtle cologne that Tsuna would have thought the hitman would _never_ wear, because someone might notice it, notice _him_ , and that would be bad for business, right?

God damn, but he smells good.

Tsuna focuses on remembering how to breathe without whimpering.

Even as Tsuna gets his legs steady, Reborn doesn’t release him. Tugs him closer to the club instead, fingers finding the shape of Tsuna’s hipbone beneath jacket and shirt. As usual, his face is half-hidden in the shadow from his fedora, and Tsuna’s too close to get a better look at him, but what he _can_ see looks just as sharp and attractively put together as ever. 

The breathing thing is definitely still a challenge.

“Mm, good. You wore the suit.”

“You’re wearing _cologne_ ,” Tsuna says, because he is an actual idiot.

“I am,” Reborn agrees, and the curve of his smile is familiar, mocking and pleased. “And you’re wearing my favorite suit.”

“I...it’s your favorite? Why?”

“Always with the questions,” Reborn says, tone light, breezy as if it might mask the danger lurking beneath. “Always wanting to _know_. Or you did, at least. It’s been a while since you asked me incessantly dumb questions, Tsuna.”

Tsuna just stares at him, fingers curled into helpless fists held awkwardly in front of. Away from Reborn. The thought of touching him right now feels like a rising wave of panic, with Tsuna already feeling as though he’s going to start vibrating right out of his own skin, because Reborn is still pressed against him, still holding onto him. 

Because they’re alone in New York City and Tsuna can just faintly hear music beyond the darkened door to the club, where Reborn made them a reservation. 

Why?

“Tell me,” Tsuna says, rough and low. Desperate.

Reborn angles his head in such a way that the light sneaks in, orange and green and just bright enough to reveal his eyes, gleaming and dark and dangerous as ever. He stares at Tsuna like he actually _sees_ him, the way Tsuna’s taught himself to look at Reborn over the last few years, as if every little piece of the puzzle matters, is the most fascinating thing.

Reborn says, “Because I like the way you look in it.”

Tsuna...looks away.

“That. No.”

“No?” Reborn asks, and that breeziness is back, though his hold on Tsuna’s hip is hard. Strange. Impossible, definitely, because this isn’t—it _can’t_ be—

Tsuna is beyond help. He has no idea what to do, how to act, what is happening. 

So he whispers, “Don’t,” and pulls away, deliberate and strong, putting conviction in it, because Tsuna knows that if he’s weak in this moment he’ll break, he’ll give in, and that way lies madness. Because Reborn already rejected him, so this can’t be what he wishes it were.

If anything, it’s just pity.

Maybe Reborn is leaving after this, for good. Maybe Reborn thinks a date and a one night stand would be enough for Tsuna to get over it—over _him_ —like love is something that degrades into nothing after use. 

Maybe Reborn doesn't know him at all, in that case.

Tsuna doesn’t know what this is, but he knows what it isn’t. Still, he won’t run away like a scared child, some heartbroken teenager who doesn’t understand. Tsuna gets it. He’s strong enough to endure. So he steps toward the club’s door, grasps the handle in one sweaty hand, and yanks it open.

Hears Reborn sigh behind him. 

The swell of music swallows anything else Reborn might have said.

\---

Tsuna’s head hurts.

“Reborn?” he asks, because the last thing he remembers is the jazz club: low lighting, narrow room, band on stage, Reborn’s thigh pressed maddeningly against his own. That’s gone now. He doesn’t understand why. Knows he’s in some kind of vehicle without knowing how he got there, or why.

He doesn’t understand why his head hurts so _fucking_ much.

But he can smell gun oil. Reborn’s favorite brand, the scent muddied a little by the faint, intoxicating touch of cologne the hitman had worn that evening. So Tsuna knows that Reborn is with him, which is probably the only reason he doesn’t panic.

“ _Reborn_ ,” he says again, squinting his eyes open to see that he’s in the back of a New York cab, trundling along dark and empty suburban streets. But it hurts, so he shuts his eyes to try and quiet the pain. 

It doesn’t help, of course.

To his right, Reborn releases a gusty, exasperated sigh. “I swear, if you ask me _one more time_ where all the musicians have gone, I will throw you from this cab.”

“Not so loud,” Tsuna groans. “Also, what? Reasonable question considering last I remember… God, it hurts to _talk_ , what happened?”

“Ah,” Reborn says, the sharp edge of threat melting out his voice. Satisfaction replaces it. “It would seem you’re back with me. About time, you idiot.”

Tsuna doesn’t want to, but he’s gotten good at doing things he doesn’t like. So he blinks his eyes open and keeps them open. Turns his head slowly, carefully. The music the cabbie is playing has been turned down low, but it’s still enough to make his brain throb. So is moving at all, and the light from the dimmed screen glowing on the back of the cabbie’s chair feels like shards of splintered glass through his eye sockets, _fuck_ , Tsuna knows what this is.

“Why do I have a concussion?!”

When Tsuna finally gets Reborn in line of sight, he isn’t looking at him. Instead, he’s slumped artfully against the far door, jacket unbuttoned, and staring out at the blur of dark houses, the bare trees and the lonely streetlights. 

But even in profile, Tsuna sees the upward tick at the corner of Reborn’s mouth, wryly amused.

Tsuna makes a face and immediately regrets it. “Yes, okay, I have a concussion because I hit my head. But _how_ , what even—”

“I dipped you too low on the dance floor.”

“— _what_.” 

“You heard me,” Reborn murmurs.

All at once, Tsuna’s heart starts to pound. “That’s not funny,” he says.

Reborn tilts his head. In the darkened cab late at night, Tsuna can’t see his eyes through the shadow cast by his fedora. Still, Tsuna knows Reborn’s looking at him; that gaze always makes him want to fidget. 

Reborn’s smile widens into a smirk.

“We did _not_ dance,” Tsuna complains, squinting against the pain. Against fear and longing, too, and _frustration_ that Reborn would tease him like this. He can be cruel, yes, but surely he wouldn’t be cruel about this. Not about Tsuna and his affection, his stupid yearning that he’s tried so hard to keep from ruining them. He gasps for air, tries not to be sick. Grits out, “That’s not— You wouldn’t have—”

“I would have,” Reborn interrupts.

For a moment, all Tsuna can do is stare. 

He remembers again the jazz club, the intimacy of their tiny table. Reborn’s mouth so close to his ear in order to be heard that the feel of his lips brushing against Tsuna’s lobe had made all Reborn’s clever quips and interesting factoids meaningless, just noise that fed the buzzing beneath Tsuna’s skin. He remembers heat and giddiness and fear, getting drunk off proximity and that hint of cologne. 

Remembers the curve of Reborn’s mouth against the rim of his scotch. 

Indulgent; fond. 

A smile that he wears for Tsuna alone.

“You…would have,” Tsuna repeats back. “Would have...what? Danced with me?”

“Mm.”

Reborn’s still smirking at him. Still so far away for all that the cab isn’t that big and he’s right _there_ , so close. But never as close as Tsuna wants; never as close as he needs. And that’s fine. Or it should be. Usually, it’s fine because it _has_ to be fine. There are no other options. 

Tsuna doesn’t know how to deal with Reborn acting as though there are.

“Don’t,” Tsuna complains. “My head hurts, I don’t—I can’t deal with you teasing me like this, so just—”

Reborn interrupts again. “You’re awful chatty when you’re concussed, aren’t you? And you’ve been doing so well desperately pretending you _don’t_ have a crush on me. This is pretty damning, Tsuna.”

“Shut _up_.”

Reborn opens his mouth to reply, but before he can the cabbie clears his throat, pulling in against the curb. 

“Everything okay back there?” he asks. 

He’s not from America originally, Tsuna thinks, but he can’t place the accent, distracted and confused and still with that awful pounding in his head. But he can feel his face heating up. It’s a relief to hear the cabbie speaking in English, at least, if only because it means he probably hadn’t understood Tsuna and Reborn’s conversation.

“Yes,” Reborn replies, with only the slightest hint of an Italian accent to the word. 

As always, it _does_ things to Tsuna to hear it. Reborn’s Japanese has gotten so good he sounds like a native to Namimori. So Tsuna loves it whenever Reborn speaks English, because he still has an accent whenever he does, and god, but that accent is the most amazingly distracting thing Tsuna has possibly heard in his _life_. The first time he realized it was during that world tour, back before Tsuna had even noticed he’d gone and fallen in love with the bastard. The UK had been Tsuna’s favorite stop, purely because of how often Reborn spoke English there. 

However, Tsuna will die before admitting that to Reborn.

“Fuck,” Tsuna says. “I love your accent.”

Reborn visibly hesitates, a brief instant of blatant surprise, before he finishes handing over the fare. 

Tsuna can feel his blush get hotter. Concussions, he decides, are the actual worst.

“Thank you,” Reborn says, and for a mortifying moment Tsuna thinks Reborn is talking to _him_. But: “Keep the change. I appreciate the care you took in avoiding potholes.”

“Wasn’t easy,” the cabbie agrees. “Let me get your receipt—”

“No need,” Reborn says, opening the door. In no time at all he’s around to Tsuna’s side, hand a cold hard manacle about Tsuna’s wrist as he hauls him out.

“Ow, _ow_ , Reborn! I’m concussed, remember?!”

Reborn merely snorts, shutting the cab’s door. It pulls out into the street right as Reborn asks, “What, do you want me to kiss it better?” in mocking Japanese.

“Yes,” Tsuna’s concussion says.

Reborn makes a noise Tsuna can’t understand, but thinks might be tinged with amusement. Without further comment, however, Reborn herds him up a narrow walk to a small, dark house in a row of similarly small, dark houses. It must be late; the night sky has that impossible distance to it and the whole world feels as though it’s dreaming. The warm yellow of the porch light makes Tsuna hiss, raising his free hand to shield his eyes. He mumbles, “We didn’t dance. Did we?”

Reborn unlocks the door; opens it. “No,” he admits. “But only because I didn’t get a chance to ask you. Now come along, No Good Tsuna. I think you might still be bleeding somewhere.”

Tsuna isn’t certain what to feel or say about that. 

But Reborn is still holding his wrist, tugging him along, and Tsuna hasn’t any idea what else to do in this situation, how to feel or react to protect himself. He’s not sure he can, not against Reborn. Can only trust that Reborn won’t hurt him, not really, not in any way that might _count_. 

Tsuna follows him inside.

\---

Despite Reborn’s suspicions, it isn’t _Tsuna_ who’s still bleeding.

“The hell happened,” Tsuna asks.

Between Reborn’s pushy, at times downright _ornery_ fussing, and the stupid argument that occurred when Reborn tried acting as though he _hadn’t_ been stabbed by a knife only an hour before, Tsuna hasn’t bothered asking until now. The details don’t really matter when blood is steadily dripping onto the bathroom tile. Tsuna hates it. Reborn bleeding rarely happens, and it never ceases to unsettle Tsuna. He wants to go back to the club and find the people who did this; wants to destroy them, maybe. 

“Some idiots decided to ruin a perfectly good date,” Reborn drawls, glaring from where he begrudgingly allowed Tsuna to push him down onto the closed lid of the toilet. His jacket and ruined shirt have been discarded, tie left carelessly on the floor. He has arms crossed forbiddingly, as if daring Tsuna to coddle him. But blood trickles freely down his clavicle, matting the sparse chest hair.

He can glare all he wants. Tsuna doesn’t actually give a shit, not when Reborn is hurt like this. 

“That explains exactly nothing,” Tsuna grunts.

“You’re a terrible nurse.”

“At least I’m not in costume,” Tsuna snaps back, trying to figure out what to do next.

The wound won’t stop bleeding. Tsuna pours peroxide on it, mostly to see if Reborn reacts and because he’s still having a hard time focusing around the pounding in his skull. Of course, Reborn doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps glaring, stoic despite the bubbling of the wound in his shoulder. “I think I’m going to have to sew this shut,” Tsuna says, and between the concussion and the idea of sticking a needle into Reborn’s flesh, he sways, gone light-headed and nauseous.

“Don’t puke on me, Tsuna.”

“Urgh,” Tsuna replies, setting the bottle of peroxide down with trembling fingers.

“Still an idiot, aren’t you?” Reborn sighs, and when Tsuna can stand to look at him again, he has one hand cupped over his wounded shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers.

All at once, it’s hard to breathe against the golden surge of Reborn’s sun flames. 

“Ah,” Tsuna chokes. “Right.”

Reaching out, Tsuna sets his hand atop Reborn’s. Movements slow, trying to be careful despite his shaking body. Reborn watches beneath half-lidded eyes, letting him. There’s so much blood that Tsuna’s hand almost skids right off the back of Reborn’s.

“I hope you tipped well,” Tsuna mutters, resituating. “How are you not dead yet? This is so much blood.”

“Don’t be squeamish,” Reborn murmurs, not looking away. So Tsuna takes a deep breath and finds the place in himself that’s pure will and calls to it, his own sky flames feeding Reborn’s.

It doesn’t take long. 

Once he’s healed, Reborn’s flames cease, power banked once more. Tsuna’s fade out shortly after, but—he leaves his hand there, blood slicked palm tight over Reborn’s knuckles. “You never told me you liked jazz.”

“You’ve asked me so many questions.” Gingerly, Reborn tips his head back, resting it against the wall. Tsuna realizes suddenly that he’s missing his fedora, left behind in the other room no doubt. His hair is messed up. “I’ve forgotten what all I’ve told you. Jazz isn’t my favorite, but I like it. Especially at a place like Hank’s. Intimate. Interesting. And I wanted to see if _you_ would enjoy it.”

Slowly, Tsuna retracts his hand. Steps back to a safer distance. 

Reborn’s shoulder is nearly healed, the bleeding wound knit over, pink and shining with health. “Will it scar, do you think?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter.”

Tsuna frowns, not sure he likes that answer. Reborn just smirks up at him, arms loose now, artlessly sprawled. “You going to kiss it better, Tsuna?”

“You don’t want me to,” Tsuna says, still frowning. 

He blinks, blinks again. His head hurts. He still feels like he’s going to be sick. Everything is too much and weird and all he wants to do is sleep. He barely feels anything at all, other than exhaustion, even when Reborn says, “Maybe I do.”

Tsuna sighs, shaking his head. “Make up your mind, Reborn.”

He leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

\---

Somehow he finds the couch, though Tsuna only knows this because he wakes up on it. Again and again and again, because Reborn keeps rousing him. “Leave me alone,” he mumbles, annoyed, pushing petulantly at the hands holding his face.

“Hush,” comes Reborn’s low voice. “My flames only work so well on concussions. Need to make sure you don’t slip into a coma. Look at me.”

“No,” Tsuna whines. 

Reborn snorts. “Stubborn idiot.”

It’s like a fractured dream, Reborn’s voice murmuring to him too soft to understand, cold fingertips stern and unyielding against Tsuna’s chin. Fragments, distant and strange. He dreams that he reaches out, arm looped over Reborn’s lap where he sits on the edge of the couch, clutching at his back, soft, hot skin over the knobs of his spine. 

“Stay,” Tsuna sighs. “Don’t leave me.”

Reborn clicks his tongue, and Tsuna isn’t dreaming at all. But next he knows it’s an hour later and it’s too difficult to ask if Reborn had answered that plea. He falls asleep, wakes up. Reborn is always there, it seems.

Eventually, Tsuna wakes and stays awake.

“I feel like crap,” he tells the afternoon sunlight streaming in, hauling himself into a sitting position with a groan. There’s a soft, fuzzy yellow throw over him. It pools in Tsuna’s lap, begging to be pet, so Tsuna does. Somewhere in the little house, he senses Reborn. Movement from a dark hallway steals Tsuna’s attention, and he looks up to see the hitman emerge.

In sweatpants.

Shirtless, with a towel around the back of his neck, hair still damp from a shower.

“Oh god,” Tsuna squeaks.

Reborn smirks, all hip bone and happy trail and exposed nipples. It’s a lot to take in. Tsuna’s adrenaline shoots up so fast he immediately feels ill, like he’s going to puke from straight nerves when he’s pretty certain he managed to avoid it last night.

“Looks like you’ve survived,” Reborn comments, tone light. He moves across the living room into the kitchen, discarding the towel along the way. Tsuna can’t see what he’s fiddling with in there, but he’d bet money it’s an espresso machine. “Think you can keep some food down?”

“You...are you offering to cook for me?”

Reborn leans into view, still smirking. “Don’t get used to it.”

Tsuna thinks that Reborn could cook him breakfast, lunch and dinner for the rest of his life, and he would never, ever get used to it. Means too much, maybe, or feels too surreal, unreachable. Like a lie that Tsuna wishes he were brave or stupid enough to believe. 

Slowly, he gets off the couch, pulling the yellow throw around his shoulders without thinking, hugging it close. He shuffles into the kitchen.

Despite the absurdity of it all, Reborn is still shirtless, barefoot. He has a scar on his back below his left shoulder blade, some starburst of gnarled tissue. Lower down, near the waistband of the plain gray sweats, are a cluster of shiny red burn marks. Tsuna devours the sight of all that skin, even as he finds a little table and chairs in a breakfast nook to sit at. 

It’s easier to stare than to think about what’s happening. Or about yesterday. The jazz club and the cologne and Reborn touching him without any violent intent.

“Stop staring or I’ll go find a shirt,” Reborn says quietly.

Tsuna flinches, feeling guilty. Which is dumb and stupid, probably, but he feels it all the same. There’s a newspaper folded open before the chair that backs against the wall without a window. Reborn’s spot, apparently. Tsuna snags the paper, flips through to see if there’s anything about the attack last night while Reborn opens the fridge—bare of pictures—and fishes around for eggs and bell peppers and a tub of butter.

Reborn asks, “Is an omelette fine?”

Tsuna’s eyes flick up to him, armed with a spatula and thoughtful look, staring into the open fridge. Then they flick back down to the paper, as if Tsuna can somehow hide how fast his pulse is tripping along, desperately trying to keep up with this situation. 

Don’t think about it, he tells himself. 

“Tsuna?”

Tsuna clears his throat and somehow manages to say: “Sure. Is there, uh. Meat or something?”

Humming, Reborn reaches inside the fridge and pulls out a package of sausage. “Can do.”

It’s surreal.

It might be the best moment of Tsuna’s life.

\---

“This isn’t a safehouse,” Tsuna realizes an hour later.

They’re both seated at the little breakfast table, still, the late summer sun warm against Tsuna’s back through the window. He’s a little surprised by how many windows are in this house, to be honest. It doesn’t feel like Reborn’s usual idea of a safehouse, which is what led him to thinking about it in the first place. Reborn’s in a plain cotton black shirt now, drinking another espresso, the plates from their meal left next to the sink. He’s filling out a crossword in pen and not saying very much.

It’s...companionable.

“Oh?” Reborn doesn’t bother looking up. “It’s a house, and it’s safe enough for the time being.”

Tsuna makes a face, shifting gingerly. He’s still got the blanket around his shoulders, in part because of the way he’d caught Reborn looking at him when he’d resettled it. Sort of...soft. That fond indulgence that didn’t feel at all like something casual, or simple, or safe. 

Tsuna wants whatever is happening here to never end, but he knows better than to pretend about this. 

Life isn’t fair, after all. It’s a lesson he’s learned well.

“You know what I _mean_ , Reborn. I’ve been to a few of your safehouses, remember? That time earlier this year in Cairo—”

Reborn’s hand tenses around the pen, then eases back to something like gentleness. “Yes, Tsuna,” he murmurs. “I remember.”

Four days in that safehouse, in the dark and the damp, staying quiet. Eating beans out of a can that they couldn’t heat up and armed with enough weapons to win a war, it felt like. Reborn didn’t set up safehouses for comfort, but for survival. Tsuna vaguely remembers the raw panic he’d felt at the time, faced with only a single cot, knowing that Reborn knew how he felt, knowing that Tsuna had to keep pretending. 

That it would be there, between them, no matter what.

Now, thinking about it, he also remembers...something about Reborn’s expression, right before he’d huffed a laugh and made a snide comment, pulling Tsuna down to sleep back to back as if it were nothing. 

Something...uneasy. 

“I’m missing something,” he tells the table, letting his eyes go unfocused. He’s gripping the yellow throw so tightly Tsuna’s afraid he’ll tear the fabric, but he can’t stop. “There’s...I don’t know. A missing piece of the puzzle. If I just knew what it was, then maybe I’d understand.”

“...Understand what?”

“What you’re trying to do,” Tsuna says, only he doesn’t really because his voice is all garbled and weird and tight, too anguished and hurt to be something as simple and steady as _saying_ it. The breakfast table is a blur of pale wood and his eyes are burning, but he isn’t crying. Thank fuck, but Tsuna is _not_ crying about this in front of Reborn, which would be a kind of shame he doesn’t think he could endure. He just _feels_ like crying.

Reborn sighs, gusty and annoyed.

The pen taps like a bomb ticking its way to detonation, and Tsuna can feel Reborn’s eyes on him. He resists the urge to fidget. Can’t convince himself to look up and face him, just sits there still and quiet and feeling small and helpless, hoping that Reborn will explain himself for once. Offer up some intel that Tsuna doesn’t have to fish for, to hoard carefully like stolen treasure.

“Your meeting tomorrow is canceled, by the way,” is what Reborn says.

Tsuna deflates, resting an elbow on the table with a clatter and pressing his forehead into his palm, fingers tangling into his hair. The throw slips down his freed shoulder. He squeezes his burning eyes shut and says without humor: “Oh, yeah? That’s awesome, great. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“I don’t know who jumped us last night,” Reborn continues, cool and calm as always. “I’m guessing you don’t remember much, so I’ll fill in the details. We went into the club, got a table and drinks. We spent an hour listening to music and talking and the whole while you did your best to pretend like you aren’t in love with me—in case you were wondering, your best is abysmal—and then your hyper intuition noticed the thugs with the guns. So we left, luring them into an alley.”

“You’re not supposed to call me on it,” Tsuna says, mouth completely dry. His heart feels like it must be in the center of the earth, it’s plummeted so far.

Reborn ignores him, of course. “There was a bit of a shoot out. The knife was a surprise, I won’t lie. In any case, we dispatched them before the police arrived and I hailed a cab a few blocks over. I hadn’t planned on taking you home last night, by the way. I have a _little_ more class than that. If the date had gone well, then I’d planned on waiting until after your meeting was concluded and inviting you to join me here for the weekend.”

Tsuna thinks, maybe, that the way it’s all delivered—entirely even, as if Reborn has no emotional stake in any of it—makes it harder for the words to sink in. When they do, he freezes. His eyes open, but all he does is stare sightlessly down at the table, barely breathing.

Because that makes no sense.

That’s not…

That’s not _possible_.

Eventually, he asks the only thing he can think of: “Why?”

“Tsuna,” Reborn says, amusement finally back in his tone. “Look at me.”

“No way,” Tsuna mumbles, sliding his hand down from his forehead to cover his face, as if somehow Reborn might be able to see him even ducked down like this. He doesn’t know what his expression is doing, but it probably isn’t pretty. He has no hope of pretending like this doesn’t matter to him, not anymore.

Secret’s out, obviously, but that doesn’t mean Tsuna wants to _face_ it.

The pen whistles through the air for a split second before hitting Tsuna hard enough on the top of his head that he sees _stars_. “Fucking—ow! I already have a _conccussion_ , for fuck’s sake!”

Reborn is smiling and vicious and entirely unconcerned when Tsuna jerks back to glare at him, pleased he’s gotten his way. “If I have to explain it to you, then I’m only going to do it the once, you understand? And I’d rather see your face for it.”

Tsuna keeps glaring, as if it might disguise the way he’s begun trembling. “Fine,” he grits out. His face is too hot, his head smarts anew, and he’s suddenly afraid of what Reborn is about to say. “Tell me then. Make me understand, Reborn.”

The smile—if it can be called that—fades. Reborn slumps against the back of his chair, one arm crooked over the top of it, gaze thoughtful. It’s still strange to look at him, no fedora in sight, no suit or tie. He looks underdressed, incomplete. Vulnerable, almost, even though there’s nothing about Reborn that seems weak. 

He just...he looks stripped down, is all. Like he’s deliberately taken off his armor.

Tsuna pulls the blanket back around his shoulders.

Reborn’s distant gaze flickers to him, focuses. And there’s that look again—soft and warm. A corner of his mouth twitches. He says, “You look ridiculous.”

Tsuna huffs. “Don’t be mean.”

“I wasn’t,” Reborn tells him, voice oddly gentle. “Tell me, do you remember...back when you were eighteen. After we’d visited the major crime families and we were taking the train back to Namimori.”

Tsuna remembers, but mostly what he remembers is Reborn’s distant silhouette as he walked away, and the devastating realization of being in love with a man who was untouchable. He says, “Yeah,” anyway, in a voice that’s barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I am not...a kind man,” Reborn says. That distant look is back, his voice a low, velvety murmur. “What I desire, I take. I’ll do anything if it means getting what I want, completing a job. So I was surprised when you told me that I’d won, that I’d _made_ you, and I felt...guilt. Thinking that I’d forced you.”

Tsuna is also surprised, hearing this. “But—but you shouldn’t,” Tsuna says. “You didn’t! That’s not what I meant—”

“I know,” Reborn says. “But I thought and felt it nonetheless.”

Tsuna sits at the table, the warm golden light filtering in through the window, turning Reborn’s already pale skin paler still, and feels wonder. He never expected to hear Reborn admit something like that, not in his wildest dreams. Tsuna’s not sure what to _do_ with it.

Reborn admits: “By then, I already knew you had a crush on me.”

“How?! I didn’t even know yet!”

“You’ve never been subtle,” Reborn tells him. “It’s why I moved out when I did.”

That—God. That was ages before the station and Tsuna’s realization. That’s mortifying. Horrible. But then a bird sings somewhere outside, and Tsuna remembers the binoculars on the table, the worn book next to it. So he asks, “And what about the night that I...uh, the night I tried to kiss you?”

Reborn’s lip twitches again. “I was impressed with how well you lied after. If I hadn’t known you better, I would’ve believed you didn’t remember any of it.”

Even now, Tsuna feels a warm glow in his chest at the praise.

“I could have been kinder,” is what Reborn says next. “But all I could think when you started leaning in was that I’d _made_ you feel this way. That I’d be taking advantage of you simply _thinking_ about it. You were my student. I’d shaped you, molded you, made you to my liking just as you’d said. Perhaps you thought this was what I wanted.”

That warm glow in Tsuna’s chest goes funny, sour and strange. “And it wasn’t, was it?” he asks anyway, because one of those things Reborn helped him learn was bravery. Despite his own expectations, Tsuna isn’t a coward. “You didn’t want me.”

“No,” Reborn admits. “I didn’t.”

Tsuna nods, because that—that sounds right, doesn’t it? It’s just as he’d thought, exactly as he’d always known. “That’s okay, Reborn. You don’t… I don’t need your pity, okay? I never thought anything would come of it. That’s why I never said anything, you know? I wasn’t running. I just... I knew it was a battle I couldn’t win, so I didn’t see the point of fighting, you know?”

Reborn looks at him, now, with glittering eyes, nothing faraway about them at all. “You’re not very selfish, are you, Vongola?”

“I guess not,” Tsuna smiles.

“I _definitely_ didn’t teach you that,” Reborn says, voice thick and harsh all of a sudden. Tsuna blinks, surprised, and then blinks again when Reborn stands up in a scrape of chair legs on wood, planting a hand in the center of the little table to lean over, into Tsuna’s space. Close enough that he goes blurry in Tsuna’s vision. Close enough to feel his breath on Tsuna’s nose. Close enough to—

“Don’t!” Tsuna yelps, lurching back so hard he nearly sends his own chair through the window. 

Reborn is still looking at him with those glittering, predatory eyes.

Tsuna backs away, heart pounding. His legs feel shaky, the world spinning. “What are you—I just _said_ you don’t have to do this!”

“Nearly a whole year,” Reborn says, talking right over Tsuna’s next, wobbly protest. “That’s how long I’ve spent considering it. I might never have if you hadn’t lied your ass off the next morning, Tsuna. Looking at your dumb face at the cafe, pretending like your heart wasn’t breaking. I may not be kind, but I try not to be overly cruel. The least I could do, I thought, was to consider it.”

“Consider—what, exactly?”

Reborn smiles. “If I could look at you the same way you look at me, every time you think I’m not paying attention.”

Tsuna stares at him, retroactively horrified.

The smile gets wider, a little more wicked—but warm, too, in a way that’s unfamiliar, except for how it mimics that soft look Tsuna’s been catching more and more often. Full of affection and indulgence. “Tsuna,” Reborn says, clicking his tongue cheekily. “I’m _always_ paying attention.”

“Then what—then—last night?”

Tsuna is frozen in place, unable to move. Reborn seems to notice, because he stands up leisurely and prowls around the table, and no amount of casual clothing will ever do anything to mask the raw, violent energy that he carries inside, all that power turned to deadly precision. Slowly, carefully, like how Tsuna’s learned to approach _him_ , Reborn slides his arms around Tsuna’s waist beneath the blanket. Pulls him in close.

Murmurs into his ear, “Last night was exactly what it seemed, Tsuna. A date.”

“...Why?”

A soft laugh, making Tsuna shiver. Reborn moves closer, holds him tighter. Solid and hard and unyielding, nearer than he’s ever been before. Almost near enough. “Because I’ve gone and fallen in love with you, idiot.”

“O-oh. That—uh, that’s good.”

Reborn snorts, pressing a kiss to Tsuna’s burning cheek. “Ever so glad you approve,” is his dry reply once he pulls back. Far enough to examine Tsuna, that look of vaguely wicked amusement getting more and more wicked and amused with each passing second. “You look like you’re going to explode,” he says. “C’mon, Tsuna. Sit down, process it. I still have a crossword puzzle to finish.”

“Seriously?” Tsuna manages to squeak out. 

Reborn pushes him back toward his chair, picking up his pen on his way back to his own. He settles in at the table as if nothing earth shattering just happened, as if he hadn’t just said _I’ve gone and fallen in love with you_ and destroyed every single defense Tsuna has against him. As if Tsuna isn’t spinning and shaken and—

Okay, yeah.

Maybe he needs a minute to process all of this.

Reborn quirks a brow as Tsuna collapses back into his chair, his blanket slipping from numb fingers. “Seriously,” he tells him. “I’m not going anywhere, Tsuna. There’s time.”

And it goes against all the lessons he’s tried to teach himself this past year, but Tsuna...believes him.

\---

“So wait,” says Tsuna, two days later in a nearby park. “What’s up with the house, though?”

Reborn has a pair of binoculars around his neck and a worn book of bird watching in his hand. It’s chilly enough that they’re both in coats and jeans, and Tsuna still can’t get over that—Reborn in _jeans_. They look unfairly good tucked into his black boots. But also, _everything_ looks unfairly good on Reborn, who is unfairly good looking in general. It’s been two days and Tsuna is still reeling, still shaken and surprised every time that Reborn reaches for him, letting him in easily as if he _wants_ Tsuna there, in his space, asking questions, _learning_ him. 

Now, he even asks some questions of his own. 

At the moment, though, Reborn pointedly ignores him.

“I mean, it’s not a safe house,” Tsuna says. “Did you just—did you always have this house?”

“No,” Reborn grunts.

“Did you… oh. Oh, my god.”

Slowly, Reborn turns to look at him. Tsuna almost can’t breathe for giddiness. He asks: “Did you actually _buy a house_ just so you could put the moves on me?”

Reborn looks at him, head angled curiously. And then he only says, “Yes.”

The giddiness fades, soft wonder taking its place. Tsuna stumbles closer, dares to reach out and brush his fingers against the dark wool of Reborn’s coat. “But...why?”

Reborn leans in and kisses him. 

Quick, gentle, easy. 

Like they’re something real, normal, mundane. “Just you and me,” Reborn murmurs. “Isn't that what you’ve been wanting?”

Tsuna clutches at Reborn’s coat, holds on tight because—he can now. He’s allowed. Sometimes the world turns out to be fair after all. “Yes,” he says, grinning like a fool. “That’s…that’s exactly what I wanted.”

Reborn smiles like a secret. “It’s what I wanted too.”  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> take your time, all life's lessons aren't learned in a day
> 
> thanks so much for reading! i hope it was fun!!


End file.
